


The Fundamental Things Apply

by TroubleIWant



Series: Shelter In Place 2020: Old drafts resurrection [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Breaking Up & Making Up, But also a happy ending unlike the original! I promise, Casablanca retelling, Happy Ending, M/M, Misunderstandings, Peter is an OK uncle, Pining, WWII, What with all the Werewolf Nazis, alternative history, wolves are known
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:54:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23386978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TroubleIWant/pseuds/TroubleIWant
Summary: Casablanca AU started in that period when everything made me go STEREK!- OR -There’s only one song that Boyd isn’t allowed to play, which seems like a fair restriction. It’s Derek’s bar, after all - says so right on the sign. He’s well within his rights to banish one silly song.Yet for some reason, that’s the melody pouring forth from the piano tonight. Derek is overseeing the craps tables in the far back room, but the first run of notes is instantly recognizable. In the space of a breath he's dragged viscerally back to Paris, to a carefree time of tree-lined boulevards and brown eyes gone whiskey bright in the sunlight...Derek pulls himself back to the present day, and makes for the front room in a poorly-tempered rage. Why now? “Erica,” Derek interrupts. “Boyd. I thought I told you never to play--” and his voice cuts off.It’s Stiles, sitting there in the flesh, right at one of Hale’s Cafe Americano’s tiny, imported tables. He’s sitting there as real as anyone, as if the intensity of Derek’s memories somehow dragged him out of the past and into the present moment.“Hello, Derek,” Stiles says into the loaded silence.
Relationships: Brief Vernon Boyd/ Erica Reyes, Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Minor Scott McCall/Stiles Stilinski in as much as Scott is Lazlo to Stiles' Ilsa in this retelling
Series: Shelter In Place 2020: Old drafts resurrection [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1678111
Comments: 41
Kudos: 243





	The Fundamental Things Apply

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lordvoldemortsnipple](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lordvoldemortsnipple/gifts).



> I'm not exactly a liar about not writing Sterek anymore, because this is actually an old fic that I have resurrected and polished up because of a VERY nice comment someone left me recently (lordvoldemortsnipple, you know who you are) and because quarantine. It features delightfully florid melodrama, a pretty hazy memory of WWII's timeline, and a super fast and helpful beta-read by the lovely [Mad Madam M](http://mad-madam-m.tumblr.com/)! Errors that remain are my own. Enjoy!

* * *

There’s only one song that Boyd isn’t allowed to play, which seems like a fair restriction. It’s Derek’s bar, after all - says so right on the sign. He’s well within his rights to banish one silly song.

Yet for some reason, that’s the melody pouring forth from the piano tonight. Derek is overseeing the craps tables in the far back room, but the first run of notes is instantly recognizable. In the space of a breath he's dragged viscerally back to Paris, to a carefree time of tree-lined boulevards and brown eyes gone whiskey bright in the sunlight... 

He’s furious. Sometimes he’ll catch Erica humming a bit of it to herself at the bar, but she always stops when he catches her eye and she realizes what she’s doing. Boyd has never slipped up, not once. Derek pulls himself back to the present day, and makes for the front room in a poorly-tempered rage. Why _now_?

Erica’s voice starts, sweet and clear: “You must remember this, a kiss is still a kiss, a sigh is just a sigh…”

Derek’s steps stutter along with his heart, then he marches forward with even more purpose.

“...the fundamental things apply, as time goes-”

“Erica,” Derek interrupts. “Boyd. I thought I told you never to play--” and his voice cuts off. 

It’s Stiles.

He’s sitting there in the flesh, right at one of _Hale’s Cafe Americano’_ s tiny, imported tables. He’s sitting there as real as anyone, as if the intensity of Derek’s memories somehow dragged him out of the past and into the present moment. 

There’s a smile on his lips and a glint in his eye and though he looks a little different, he’s just as beautiful as he had been all those years ago. His face is exactly as guileless and open as the day he’d sworn, cross his heart and hope to die, that he'd meet Derek at the train station in the morning and they'd flee the occupation forces together, because they were in love and they deserved to be happy together in America, far from the war. Derek remembers that evening well, because it had been the last time they’d ever seen each other.

Or, it had been. Until now.

“Hello, Derek,” Stiles says into the loaded silence. His tone is a little wistful, a little sorry. As if everything between them is a tender old bruise rather than a gaping and unhealed betrayal. Derek can feel his own pulse fast and hot, the thunder of it drowning out Stiles’ heartbeat. 

“Mr. Hale?” a voice asks before Derek can even start to think of a fair reply. “I'm Scott McCall,” the stranger says, coming into view and offering his hand. He’s handsome and earnest, with a firm grip that puts steel behind his soft, lopsided smile. Derek's never met the man, but he recognizes him from the underground news stories: Scott McCall, true Alpha, hero of the resistance. Stiles’ mate. 

Peter is right behind him. “Ah, nephew, there you are. What a pair of guests we have here, hmm? Everyone has heard of Mr. McCall, of course… and we all _should_ have heard about his mate, wouldn’t you say?”

Stiles smiles indulgently, though his eyes are sharp. “Is that a compliment, or an insult?”

“Oh, complimentary, I assure you,” Peter purrs. “You must know what a delight you are. Brave, gorgeous...”

“And Jewish,” Stiles points out smoothly. “Not the most popular thing to be, these days.”

“True,” Peter agrees with the careless smile of someone who will never be personally affected.

“Well,” McCall says genially, shifting the topic. “I’m very happy to meet the famous Derek Hale. Everyone says this is the place to go in Casablanca. Please, let’s have a drink together.” 

Peter scoffs. “Oh, Derek never-”

“That sounds fine. A round on the house,” Derek interrupts.

“Well, there’s two unexpected firsts for this establishment,” Peter murmurs. His eyes are calculating.

As they wait for the server to fetch a bottle, Derek looks at Stiles. He can’t keep himself from doing it, and he can’t keep the heat out of his gaze. McCall has to notice, but he doesn’t flash his eyes, or snarl, or react at all, really, besides a small crease between his eyebrows. He’s a better Alpha than Derek, no matter what the Nazis have to say about bitten wolves’ lack of control.

“How have you found Casablanca?” McCall asks, in a tone that Derek knows well. He wants something. An illegal something, most likely. Derek occasionally procures and sells travel papers, and word gets around a city this size.

“Suits me fine,” Derek says shortly. “Not sure you’d feel the same.”

“No,” McCall agrees. They’re both aware of the political climate. What in the world brought McCall here in the first place, Derek wonders bitterly. Vital resistance subterfuge, no doubt. All the heroism would hardly count without some danger. 

“I hear that your cafe is a bit of a hub for expatriates,” McCall says, after a sip of his drink and an approving nod. “That you understand the kinds of special touches that such people are interested in.” His eyebrows lift slightly. 

Derek throws the rest of his own drink back, and thrusts the empty glass at Peter. “Another round, Peter?”

His uncle casts a regretful look around the table, but he takes the hint and saunters towards the bar with Derek’s cup.

“I don’t like what you’re implying,” Derek hisses, leaning in towards McCall. “Especially in front of a police officer.”

“He’s your uncle,” McCall protests, surprised for the first time.

Derek smiles, humorless. “I don’t trust him, and you shouldn’t trust me. Even if I had what you say, I stick my neck out for _nobody,_ understand?”

McCall nods, but it’s an acknowledgement of Derek’s refusal, not an acceptance. Clearly, this is a man used to getting his way. 

“Scott, we should go. There’s a curfew.” Stiles is showing the nerves that his mate is so strangely free of. His loving concern tears at Derek’s composure, and he looks away.

“Another time, then, Mr. Hale,” McCall says smoothly. He takes Stiles' hand and they leave. Derek watches them until they disappear through the saloon doors, but Stiles doesn’t even glance back.

* * *

The cafe is a different space at night, hollow and still. The scotch tastes the same, though. Derek’s halfway through a bottle of the good stuff, the edge of wolfsbane mellowed under peat and spice. Boyd and Erica are dawdling with their closing tasks, hoping that he’ll finish and go home. In vain, unfortunately. He has no intention of leaving.

Erica comes over and puts a hand on his shoulder, which he ignores. “Hey, Der, we’re headed out. Wanna go for a drive with us? We can drop you at yours after.” 

“No.”

“Why not?” Erica pouts. “It'll be nice. Full moon’s out, it’s not too cold…”

“He’s going to come back.” 

His two betas exchange a look. “Maybe, yeah,” Boyd says softly. “That’s why you should leave.” 

Derek doesn’t react except to take another sip. 

Boyd shakes his head, but rather than leaving his Alpha in this mood he sits and begins to play the piano. It’s a cheerful song, one that’s been popular this year. It makes the lonely bar seem a little less gloomy and Derek hates it. At least, he does tonight.

“Play _As Time Goes By_ ,” he orders.

Silence fills the empty room as Boyd’s fingers still on the keys. “I thought you didn’t want to hear it.”

“If he can stand it, so can I.”

“...Derek.”

“Play it,” Derek snaps, flashing red eyes. After a weighted moment of stillness, Boyd obeys his Alpha. Music rolls through the cavernous bar. Their song. 

Derek takes a shuddering breath and lets himself be taken back into the memory of that summer in Paris: Stiles laughing in his car, top down, wind tousling both of their hair. Stiles pointing out the monuments, asking about America, telling Derek stories about his life back in Poland. The kisses stolen behind newspapers, in doorways, in bed. Derek hadn’t known he could be that happy. Hasn't been since. 

He won’t give into tears, not over a lie. It’s clear now that Stiles never felt the same. Derek has known that since he waited there at the station like a fool, waited for hours just to be stood up. He’d nearly missed the last train, except for Boyd dragging him aboard. He’d have been trapped in Vichy, arrested most likely, and all thanks to his stupid, unshakable faith that Stiles would come.

The song finishes. Derek can’t stand the look in his betas’ eyes. 

“Go on, go home,” he orders brusquely. “I’ll close up.”

His betas turn hangdog expressions on him, but he hardens his heart and only jerks his eyebrows expectantly at them. They exchange one more heavy glance with each other, but they leave without further argument.

He waits, alone, through the rest of that drink and through another. When he’s almost started to think there’s no chance of it, the door latch sounds again. He’d left it unlocked in anticipation. Just like he thought, Stiles has come back.

Derek turns around slowly and looks at him. Stiles is well-dressed in a tailored grey suit that sets off his coloring perfectly, and his hair is freshly styled. He looks good, but it isn’t for Derek.

For a long moment they both just stare, everything unsaid thickening the air. Derek moves first. He goes back to his table, carrying a fresh pair of glasses by the rim. He pours into one from the bottle that’s still there, glances up at Stiles with a quirk of his eyebrows. Stiles gives a tiny nod, and Derek fills the second. He sits and waits.

Stiles sits down across from him, their knees nearly touching under the tiny two-top. Derek takes in the scent of him: spicy clean with a hint of the other Alpha. 

Stiles says, “I’m sorry.” 

Derek says, “What for?” and Stiles looks away. Derek takes a sip of his drink. “You got what you wanted back then, no need to keep lying now. It was a pretty little fantasy, but let’s cut to the chase. Ask me for the papers.”

“It’s not… Derek. You know it’s not like that.” There’s longing heavy in Stiles’ voice, and his eyes are dark in the low light. They glint as he tips his head winningly, with a sad, pleading smile. His fingers move on the table and come to rest an inch away from touching Derek’s.

Derek pulls his hand back. “That’s good, your tone there. Almost believable.” He raises his glass in an ironic toast before tilting his head and shooting the rest of the whiskey. 

“Derek,” Stiles says again, the smile quivering uncertain on his mouth.

“With that face I bet you could convince just about anyone you’re being honest. Anyone who didn’t already know you, I mean. How many saps did you use and lose between me and McCall, anyways? Or did I overlap with anyone?” He toys with his empty glass, tipping and rolling it unsteadily on the table.

Stiles stiffens. “What?”

“I mean,” Derek says, enunciating crisply. “I didn’t take you out every night. Wasn’t there anyone else you were stringing along on the side?” 

“Fuck you,” Stiles says, trembling. He’s so clearly hurting that it hurts Derek to see it. He’s almost sorry.

“You’ve already done that,” he says, like tearing up a scab just to see it bleed. “Both ways.”

There’s an awful look on Stiles’ face, half rage and half just wounded. He stands, his body tense in every line, and he leaves without another word. He doesn’t even let the door slam.

Derek pours himself another drink, slopping some over the rim. Can’t hurt, at this point.

* * *

The next day, Derek has a headache literally and figuratively. McCall is sitting at one of his tables, and he clearly has no intention of leaving until he discusses the papers he needs to get out of Casablanca. Despite Derek ignoring him for hours, he and Stiles are still waiting politely with no sign of boredom. Fine, then. Derek goes over to their table, armored in professionalism.

“Is there anything else we can get you, sirs?” Every fiber of his self control is going to keep himself from looking at Stiles. Does he look unhappy, pale? Did he lose sleep, and if he did, does that mean Derek’s barbed words struck home? Or just that he’s worried for his mate because he wasn’t able to bring home the papers Derek keeps safely upstairs?

“I was hoping we could continue our conversation from the other day,” McCall says smoothly. “I don’t see your uncle anywhere.”

True enough, Peter’s in the back gambling, as usual. Derek huffs through his nose. “I thought we left that conversation pretty well shut. What else is there to say?”

“I know that this isn’t an age for easy heroism, but I think you’re a better man than you pretend. I’m in a unique position to bring America into this war, which could mean liberating France, or even the defeat of Nazism. And Alpha to Alpha… I need to be there for my pack.” He looks over to Stiles, whose hand he’s holding. “My mate is Jewish, I think you can imagine the situation he’d be in without any protection.”

Derek smiles, all teeth. “Forgive me if I’m misunderstanding, but surely you’re not asking me to do something illegal? I don’t think that would be good for business.”

McCall sets his uneven jaw, and fixes Derek with a disappointed look. “I can give you money, if that’s what you want.” 

“You could give me a million fresh minted marks and I’d say the same thing. I have my own pack to think of, and as you can see, we’re doing perfectly well here in Casablanca.” He’s viciously pleased that he can deny McCall this small thing, that he can foil him in any way.

But before McCall can voice his next argument, the raucous shouts of Deucalion and his all-Alpha pack blare out an awful distraction. The German anthem. Derek takes the moment to get away from McCall’s table, but he glowers at Deucalion and the twins, Ethan and Aiden, as he passes. Born wolves all, their crisp uniforms shout their prideful disdain as clearly as their unwanted sing-along. They think they run the place, that much is clear. Derek’s mouth twists. He’s used to knuckling under, but he hates doing it in front of Stiles. 

Then suddenly, they’re interrupted by a clear tenor. The voice is untrained but confident.

It’s Scott, standing tall at the center of Derek’s bar, singing the Marseilles. Derek is stunned. That kind of resistance hasn’t even occurred to anyone here for a long, long time.

“Should I stop him?” Boyd murmurs at Derek’s ear. 

Derek shakes his head, not letting himself think farther ahead. McCall sings alone for only a moment. A few other brave souls join him at the end of the first verse, and a few more after that, emboldened. For a few bars the cafe is a cacophony, anthem warring against anthem, but the Marseilles wins out. 

Deucalion and the twins look personally offended, off balance for once. Like a miracle, the people of Casablanca have the power again. Derek can see it in his patrons’ shining eyes and raised chins. It feels good, seeing the damned Nazis put in their place. So this is the difference a True Alpha makes. Derek can’t help but look at Stiles watching the performance. Pride for his mate shines in his eyes.

Deucalion stands and leaves in a rage, only pausing to give Peter, who’d popped out from the back room at the first sounds of drama, a significant look.

Peter sighs, and then snaps to attention. “What’s this? Gambling in this establishment? I’m shocked! Everyone, out. _Hale’s_ is closed until we can resolve this infraction!” 

“Peter!” Derek yelps.

His uncle only gives him a flat look edged with regret. He leaves, along with McCall, Stiles, and all the paying patrons. The cafe is abandoned except for Derek and his suddenly unemployed pack.

* * *

Derek spends most of the evening in various government buildings filing reports, giving statements and wracking his brain for how he’ll put food on the table, now. He’s angry, blindingly so: at himself, at McCall, at Peter. But shockingly, more than anything he’s furious at the Nazi forces, at their capricious and petty cruelty. He knows it’s an anger he can’t afford, but there it is all the same.

When he finally returns to his apartment, it’s nearly midnight and Stiles is waiting for him.

He’s gorgeous under the moonlight spilling in from the windows, but everything from his expression to the set of his shoulders screams determination. All the soft nostalgia from the previous night in Derek’s bar has been wrung out of him between what they’d said to each other then and that afternoon’s events.

“Derek, I need those papers,” he says lowly.

“So does everyone else. Why do you think my answer’s magically changed since yesterday? Were you going to offer me something in exchange, this time?”

Stiles flushes, but he doesn’t react in any other way to the crude insinuation. “Derek, this isn’t a game.” His voice is trembling with attempted restraint, yet the words come out loud despite that. “I guess you hate me now, fine, but you’re not a monster. You saw how he is, Scott’s going to get himself killed! The resistance needs him, he can make a difference. He can help end this war! Save lives! You’re not really a fascist, I remember in Paris how…”

“Don’t talk about Paris,” Derek snarls. “You've got it wrong, I’m not the same person. The papers you want me to give you, they’re worth thousands of marks here, and as you might have noticed, your mate’s antics mean I don’t have an income anymore. I don’t give a shit about your pretty, useless ideals. I won’t give these papers to you.” 

“Yes, you will,” Stiles says, a new steel in his expression. He swallows, reaches back and pulls out a gun that had been concealed by his jacket.

Derek is shocked for a second, but only that. He should have known it would come to this. Stiles has always found a way to get what he wants, and he’s not so naive as McCall. Fine, then. Derek tips his chin up, accepting the threat.

Stiles’ voice wavers, though his hands are steady. “Give me the tickets. They’re not worth it, just… just give them to me. I’ll do it, Derek. Don’t make me do it.”

“If you need them so badly, go ahead. Pull the trigger and get Scott his papers.” Derek walks forward until the gun bumps against his chest, and though he can smell the wolfsbane on it he’s never been calmer. “Kill me, Stiles. Go ahead and finish the job.”

“Fuck,” Stiles curses, half a sob. Derek takes a breath, expecting it to be his last, but Stiles drops the gun and suddenly they’re kissing.

Derek kisses back, instinctively, half-believing he did die a moment ago and this is his heaven, Stiles’ mouth on his, Stiles’ hands cupping the back of his head to keep him close. Derek reaches out and tentatively finds Stiles’ elbows, runs his hands up to clutch at his biceps. It’s not until they part for breath that he believes the moment’s real.

“Stiles?” he asks.

“It was always you,” Stiles snaps, his face wet. “You idiot. Scott’s my best friend, he’s been everything to me since we were kids. I thought it was love, and it is, I do love him, he’s _family_ , but he’s not… Derek, it’s not like Paris. Nothing’s ever been like Paris.”

“I know,” Derek growls, the last of his walls collapsing so that nothing stands between them.

Stiles gasps an unintelligible word under his breath, wrenches Derek’s shirt open with little regard for the buttons. Derek pushes Stiles’ jacket off, tears at his tie and his belt. He wants them both naked, wants to tumble full length into this sunburst dream. He wasn’t a fool, none of it was false, there’s no need for the shame that he’s embroidered into every single memory of those perfect months.

Stiles drags Derek down with him onto the bed, kissing him over and over. They’re both sloppy, desperate things. Derek bites Stiles’ earlobe, nips at his neck, confirms that he still loves being riled up and teased. Their hips roll together in perfect unison. Every touch of Stiles’ long fingers is a hot breath fanning the embers of Derek’s wrecked heart. He feels like he could happily burn forever.

His own attentions to Stiles’ cock are trembling and graceless, his hands sliding over the length without any finesse. It doesn’t seem like Stiles will need more. He’s as loud as ever, writhing there in Derek’s bed. They’ve waited far too long for this to be patient now. For his own part, Derek finds himself harder than he can remember ever being. It nearly aches he’s so full of wanting Stiles.

They make love in a kaleidoscope of flushed skin, pleas and moans, aching muscles propelling graceless thrusts as they rotate through positions: Derek laying on top, then Stiles on his knees, Stiles riding him, and finally laying on their sides, Derek clutching Stiles’ thigh. It culminates in the tight clench of their near-simultaneous orgasms. Derek eases out, physically sated. The rest of him wants it again, wants it a million more times to fill up their lost time.

“What happened?” Derek hears himself ask, as they lay entwined on cooling sheets. “I waited at the station so long, Boyd and Erica had to drag me onto the last train. I would have stayed in France and tried to find you, if I wasn't their Alpha. I was so sure you had meant to come and just gotten held up. I thought you might have been arrested, Stiles, the things I imagined… but I got in touch with the hotel and they said you’d checked out hours before we’d planned. And then I heard you were with him.”

“I was with him before Paris,” Stiles says thickly.

That surprises Derek. He rolls up on an elbow to look down at Stiles. “You…?” 

Stiles throws a forearm over his eyes, but can’t hide how pale his face is. “He was captured, sent to a camp. I got a report he’d died in there. I was horrified, and lost… I didn’t know how to exist without him. But then… you were there. I knew I should still be mourning my mate, I wanted to be miserable… but you were there, and I couldn’t be miserable. I couldn’t even feel guilty about how happy I was.”

“Only, he wasn’t dead.” Derek swallows.

“No. And I'm glad of that, Derek,” Stiles says, throwing his arm aside and meeting Derek’s eyes with a fierce look. “I’ve never even once wished he hadn’t lived. Sometimes I wish… I wish I hadn’t heard for one more day.” He shakes his head once, heavy with regret. “But it doesn't matter, I did find out. I got the message right after I left you that night. He was in a bad state and I knew I needed to go to him, but I didn’t know how I could ever explain it to you, and I just… I just left. I’m sorry.”

“That’s all in the past, shh,” Derek murmurs. He bends down and kisses Stiles deeply, presses him into the mattress. This is real, he thinks, stroking down Stiles’ ribs, holding him tight, feeling the firmness and heat of another body pressed against his. “I can give Scott the tickets,” he whispers into Stiles’ ear. “He can be safe in America, and we’ll be happy here. I know how to stay out of the Alphas’ way, we’ll be alright.”

“We will,” Stiles agrees bravely. “I have to go back to him, soon. I’ll tell him you agreed, but I can’t tell him about us. Not yet. He’ll never willingly leave me here, if he thinks I’m planning to stay he’ll insist on staying too, until he can convince me.”

“Alright,” Derek says. Yet another way Scott is a better Alpha; he’s offering Stiles freedom while Derek plans to entangle him in a dangerous, claustrophobic trap of a city just to be near him. “Have Scott come to the cafe tomorrow night, I’ll have everything ready by six.”

“We’ll be there,” Stiles breathes into his ear, nuzzling their faces together. “I wish I didn’t have to go, but it’s only for a night. I’ll see you six sharp.”

They smile at each other as Stiles, showered and dressed again, slips out the door. Derek finds himself laying awake. One night apart… and then what? Recollections of their reunion and worries for the future alternate with dizzying speed. He feels like he’s been blindfolded until now, and it’s only having met Stiles again that he can finally see clearly. If only, he thinks as he rolls over restlessly, the view was a little kinder.

* * *

The arranged time comes and rolls past. Derek fidgets in his empty cafe. He’d tried to send Boyd and Erica home, but sensing trouble brewing, they’ve stuck by him. Frankly, the company is appreciated. At fifteen past, Stiles rushes in, alone and frantic.

“Stiles, what…?”

“It’s Scott, he was arrested for flashing his eyes at Deucalion. Derek, fuck! He didn’t even do it, they’re just setting him up!” He looks near tears.

Derek feels his breath quicken. “Hey, now, don’t worry. This is manageable, I’ll take care of it.” He leaves Stiles with his betas and hurries to the telephone at the back of the room. He dials quickly, and taps his foot until it’s picked up. “Uncle Peter, hello.”

“Nephew?” Peter answers. “Well, well. You must be rather _bored_ without your cafe to run.”

Derek grits his teeth at the typically breezy tone. Nothing ever touches Peter, only self interest. “I heard about McCall being arrested.”

“Yes, standing up to Deucalion again. Quite the hero.” Peter’s tone says exactly what he thinks about said heroism.

Derek shoots a glance back at Stiles, who’s nervously talking with Erica. He’s busy drinking the whiskey she’s given him for his nerves, not listening to the call. “Look, I want McCall gone,” Derek says softly into the receiver. “You’ve seen his mate, I’d like a clear shot at him for myself. This dominance display, it’ll keep him in prison for week at most. This isn’t Germany, yet. But if you let him go tonight, I can arrange for him to be caught with forged papers. They’ll deport him to one of the camps for that. You get a prestigious arrest, I get Stiles. Deal?”

“Why nephew, didn’t know you had it in you,” Peter says, pleased. “Hmm, it will involve greasing some palms but… family first. I’ll be there an hour after the release to catch him in the act. You’ll be exchanging the papers at the cafe, I assume? Oh, don’t worry. I can keep your name out of it, no trouble at all.”

“Perfect,” Derek mutters. He hangs up.

It's a long, tense wait until Scott comes, but he does. Beyond a wrinkled suit and bags under his eyes, he seems unharmed. “The police mentioned I could find you here,” Scott says to Stiles with a rueful smile. 

Stiles grapples him into a bear hug, holding on tight even as he sends a shamefaced glance over his shoulder to Derek. Derek forces a small smile.

He clears his throat, and hands the much-vaunted travel papers over. “Scott, these are for you. They aren’t signed by an official, but it should be enough to get you through customs on the other end.”

“Thank you,” Scott says. Derek almost feels like he’s doing the right thing.

Then Peter shows up.

Everyone except Derek jolts in surprise. Stiles puts himself between Peter and Scott.

“What have we here,” Peter purrs. “The great, virtuous Scott McCall iIllegally acquiring customs papers? I never.”

Stiles gapes. “Derek, what...?”

“Part of the plan,” Derek assures him. He draws his gun, and points it directly at his uncle. He knows his face looks as serious as he feels. “Peter, you’re going to sign the papers that Scott’s holding right now. A little more convincing, with your official go-ahead.” 

Peter scowls, more at being duped than at what he’s been duped into. He’s not one to risk any personal harm. Derek smiles thinly, and watches closely while Peter does as he’d ordered. “Good. And you’ll be driving us to the airport, now. The McCalls are leaving Casablanca today.” 

Peter’s expression is the picture of weary disappointment. “Why nephew, this is _exactly_ what I thought you had in you.”

* * *

It works just as he’d planned: Peter gets them past the airport gate without so much as a sideways look from the guards, and the plane is already on the tarmac waiting. Derek has the bad sense to hope. Which is, of course, exactly the moment when their luck runs out.

Deucalion’s supercilious voice precedes him. “What’s this?” he snaps, marching right up to them and glaring down his nose. Derek has no time to hide the gun he’s holding on Peter, and Deucalion’s nose flares with anger when he sees it. He quickly ticks off the people present, and comes to the correct assumption.

“You’ll all go to the camps for this,” he hisses. He picks up the phone in the small booth by the tarmac.

“Hey, now, put that right back down,” Derek says. He points his wolfsbane gun at Deucalion’s chest. “Let’s just talk this over.”

“Hale, be serious,” Deucalion sneers as he dials for backup. That’s how certain he is of his own invulnerability, of the unquestioned power of his Nazi masters. Damn it, if that call goes through he’ll have doomed them all.

Derek shoots and Deucalion falls, groaning. Then he’s still. A horrified silence falls over the group. No alarm sounds. Yet.

Derek sucks air into his lungs and speaks with a confidence he doesn’t feel. “Go on, we need to hurry now. I’ll handle this.”

“Thank you,” Scott tells him, firm. “You’re a good man, Derek. I’ll remember everything you’ve done for me, and I’ll do my best to help all of you from America.” Derek nods, and for the first time in a very long time, he knows he's doing the right thing. Scott heads up the stairs to the plane, looks back and asks, “Stiles?”

Stiles takes a small, hesitant step towards him, regret all over his face. “Scott, I…” 

“Just give us a quick goodbye,” Derek interrupts, startling Stiles into silence. Scott nods, though he shoots a wary look between them.

Stiles turns to Derek, his back to Scott. He’s angry. “What are you doing, I need to say a goodbye to _Scott_ , not you. Are you actually this jealous? I told you, he’s my best friend. I’m not in love with him, not like that, but he’s family to me.” 

“More than that. He’s your Alpha, and your hero.” 

“I… yes. That’s true, but it’s you that I want to be with, Derek.” Stiles touches his face, gently. “You’ll have me forever, okay? Just let me say goodbye.”

“I am.” Derek smiles. 

Stiles blinks. “What?”

“I was thinking, last night…The resistance needs McCall, like you said. And he needs you to be the kind of True Alpha they need. He won’t leave without you, that’s not the kind of person he is. And he shouldn’t - you’re the one who can push him when he needs to be less idealistic and more ambitious. You’re not just his mate, you’re his right hand man.”

Stiles shakes his head, starting to understand. “He’ll figure out how to make it work without me.” 

“He won’t have to, because you’re leaving with him.” 

“What? No! Derek!”

He takes Stiles by the arms. “Look, you reminded me there are things worth fighting for. If you stay, you’ll regret it. You will,” Derek says over Stiles’ attempted interruption. “This is bigger than us. You need to be part of this fight, and so do I. The things I’m going to do, I need to do alone. And you can’t abandon Scott. It’s enough that you gave us those memories of Paris back. Made them happy again.”

“Memories are enough? Derek, come on.” Stiles forces out a little laugh, like it’s just a joke in poor taste and Derek will admit that any second. Derek wishes just as much it wasn’t true, but he holds firm. “No, Derek, you don’t get to tell me what I’ll regret.” Stiles’ hands are clutching Derek’s jacket.

Derek pulls him close for a second, and whispers the three words that will make him leave before pushing him away, towards Scott. 

Stiles looks back, eyes bright with tears, like he’s drinking in the last look he’ll ever get. It might well be true, but he gets onto the plane. Derek watches as it taxis down the runway and takes off free and clear. They’ll be alright, he knows as well as anyone that the papers Peter signed are ironclad. His heart feels surprisingly light, considering he’ll most likely never see the love of his life again.

The guards will be coming soon, after the unexpected takeoff, and there’s nothing to be done with the dead body. He can’t hold Peter at gunpoint forever, either. Derek sighs. “Well, I made a good run of it, I guess,” he says ruefully to his uncle as the plane disappears. “If only it wasn’t for Deucalion, hm?”

Peter smiles. “Yes, quite a shame. We’ll have to round up the usual suspects.”

“What?” Derek asks dumbly.

“Family first, nephew,” Peter says with a wink. “Family first.”

* * *

EPILOGUE

* * *

It’s Derek’s bar, still - says so right on the refurbished sign. Now that the war is over, he finally has time for all the repairs and redecorating that didn’t get done while it was being fought. In the years since Stiles and Scott blew through Casablanca and changed everything, all his time and extra money had been devoted to resisting the Nazi regime. 

Boyd and Erica are still with him, married now. They’re currently practicing some new, post-war song and Derek smiles. It’s easier to be a good Alpha to them than it had been any time since they left Paris, honestly. Only after doing enough to be proud of can he see how toxic his shame at not doing anything was. All three of them all stood up for what they believed in the end. No matter what it cost them. 

Scott’s been ever present in the news, now that he doesn’t have to work clandestinely. He's an even bigger hero having been instrumental in ending the war. There are so many daring stories of his bravery, most of them featuring Stiles. He always looks happy, in the few pictures that Derek has seen. It was the right choice, letting him go. He’s always known that. Derek puts that old wistfulness aside, focuses on counting the chips from the now-legal gambling tables. Doesn’t hurt to be set up up for tomorrow.

Then, a familiar run of notes catches his attention. Derek freezes in the middle of his task, then abandons the piled chips to walk towards the front room as if in a trance. Erica’s sweet voice starts on the first lyrics, but even then Derek can’t quite believe it, knowing what hearing that song again means. He can’t believe it’s true until he makes it to the table nearest the piano and sees for himself.

Stiles. 

He’s more worn after the years of fighting, his cheeks a hint hollower and the lines at his eyes more pronounced. But he’s grinning like he’s twenty-one again on the streets of Paris, practically glowing as he stands to face Derek. Derek remembers the words he’d said back then to make him leave - _after the war_ \- though he hadn’t really believed it was possible himself, not until now. 

“Hello, Derek,” Stiles says.

“Scott?” Derek asks breathlessly.

“He understands, I told him everything,” Stiles says in a rush. By the end of the sentence he’s in Derek’s arms. “We’re doing it right this time, I promise. Now _kiss_ me.”

Derek does, pouring all the longing of three hard years into the press of his lips to Stiles’. It’s electric, sloppy and breathless. Neither of them notice when they clatter back against the tiny table, too focused on the contact between their bodies. Stiles clutches Derek closer, nearly climbing him.

If there was anyone else in the bar there would probably be a few cat calls or suggestions to take it to a bedroom, but Erica and Boyd don’t mind. Erica leans on the piano, beaming down at Boyd as she sings, “It's still the same old story, a fight for love and glory, a case of do or die… The world will always welcome lovers, as time goes by.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, leaving kudos (?) and commenting (???) because all of that is basically what I live on. If you really loved the story, consider telling your friends about it (tumblr post) or following me on [Tumblr](http://troubleiwant.tumblr.com/) for more fics, ficlets, fanart, flailing and general Sterek-y shenanigans... like for example a drafty Hunger Games AU I conceived in the same period as this one ;)


End file.
